Cowboy Dreams – a short story

This was one of my past stories on my FB group – FB took it down as “spam” so I’m posting it here instead.

Cowboy Dreams

(NSFW)

There was someone new sitting at the bar, his back to me. In the only gay-friendly place within a hundred miles of Dover’s Ridge, that sure made me perk up and take notice. Nice broad shoulders, trim waist, moderate-length hair a dark color in the low lights, styled city-fancy.

I strode over and slid onto the stool next to him, opening my mouth for some kind of smooth hello, but then he turned and looked at me. Eyes pale, pale blue like glacier ice stared at me from a face that coulda been carved by one of those Greek sculptors. Not too young, neither. Maybe my age, but polished and perfect. And what came out from my lips was a stutter and “H-hey, come here often?”

If I was prone to blush, I probably would’ve at that bit of stupidity, but my skin’s weather-tanned to where it don’t show much color. So I kept my chin up and eyes steady.

The stranger looked me up and down, from the dust on my beat-up Wrangler boots to the blond hair I guessed was squashed from being under my hat on the drive over. It occurred to me that I could’ve cleaned up a bit, maybe, beyond just a shower after work. But we mostly knew each other in this bar, and no fancy shirt or boot polish would make me anything but Joe McNeil― ordinary cowhand and none too fussy who he gets on his knees for, week to week.

The man’s gaze returned to my eyes and he said, “I assume you don’t,” in a cut-glass accent to go with the hundred-dollar hairdo.

“Don’t what?”

“Come here often.”

“This here’s my regular,” I said, a bit stung.

“And yet you can’t manage a pick-up line better than that trite, dusty antique?” One perfectly-shaped eyebrow climbed high.

I was about to snap something back and go try my luck elsewhere when I caught a tiny twinkle in his eyes.

Ooh, game on. I reached out and plucked the hem of his sweater with my fingers. The silky wool that hugged his shoulders, and caught on my calluses, was probably Pierre Cardin or Armani or something, but I said, “It was probably this cardigan.”

“This what?”

“Like my gramps used to wear.” I patted the knit back into place against a sharp-boned hip. “Made me think you wouldn’t recognize a pick-up line if it didn’t come from the nineteenth century.”

His eyes widened a fraction, and I saw a tiny smile tug one corner of his pretty mouth upward. “Interesting.” He cocked his head and bit his full lower lip, and I saw one of his eyeteeth was crooked― a tiny flaw in that perfect face. “My stay in this wilderness may not be a barren as I expected.”

Then, just when I’d worked that out as hopeful for getting his dick in my mouth, he shot the last of his drink in one gulp, pushed all of his change across the bar, and strode out into the night. I blinked after him, wondering if he meant me to follow. Wondering if I would because yeah, I’m mostly a bottom and I don’t mind following orders, but I kinda like the guy to look a little bit interested first.

But a powerful, deep engine roared to life in the parking lot, then pulled away and off down the road. Troy, sitting by the window, said, “Nice ride. Gotta be a ’67 Mustang.”

Clearly, whatever I thought I‘d heard, Mr. Rich City wasn’t waiting around for me. I settled back on my stool like I didn’t care, but I did ask Max behind the bar, “You know that guy?”

“Nope. Never seen him.”

“He give a name?”

Max shook his head. “Paid cash. Three shots of my best Scotch―“

“―which ain’t all that good,” we said together.

Max chuckled. “He didn’t seem to care. Drank ’em down, didn’t look at nobody till you tried a line on him.” He scooped the money off the bar, glanced at bills and coins, and dropped them in his pocket. “Good tipper though.”

That was something. Lots of rich guys treated tipping like a cheat they’d rather not pay; like the folks working for eight bucks an hour were stiffing them for wanting a couple bucks more, even though they could afford it, easy. So a guy who was generous with his tips got one check mark on the plus side of his ledger from me.

Owning a classic ‘Stang? I wasn’t sure if that was ten plus, or ten minus for not offering me a ride. Or for having that much money when I was trying to decide if these boots could be resoled one more time, or if I’d have to bite the bullet and buy new.

Either way, I figured he was just passing through. I’d never see him again. Although he’d said, “My stay in this wilderness…“

I sat at the bar a mite linger, and a couple of regulars raised a glass my way, but somehow, the array of familiar bodies in the bar had lost their appeal for the night. I got back into my truck around eleven. The engine started with a throaty roar too, but only ’cause the muffler was full of holes and held on with baling wire. The half-hour drive back to the ranch felt longer than usual, and emptier. Which made no damned sense at all.

I admit, I swung by Max’s Place a few more times than usual in the next week. Which was any nights, ’cause most weeks, if I’m there at all, it’s just Saturdays. But Tuesday and Thursday and then Friday, it happened to be on my way home. (A lie. I live in the bunkhouse where I work, so “on my way home” is a short walk across the barnyard. But whatever.)

I drank three rum-and-cokes I didn’t really want, listened to way too much Tim McGraw, turned down a handful of guys, and came home empty-handed. Or empty-mouthed.

Saturday I almost didn’t go, just to be ornery. But I’d woken up with painful morning wood, and my dick had nagged at me hopeful-like through the day, and I was bound and determined to do something about it this time. Even if it wasn’t with Mr. Rich City.

Sure enough, when I arrived, there was no broad-shouldered stranger at the bar. I shoved my hopes down in the little box in my head where a lotta stuff like that lived, and paid for a drink while I scanned the thin crowd. I was in no hurry. Things would pick up later.

Round about midnight, I was just deciding that Junior Willoughby looked decent enough when I swear I felt a chill like an ice cube on the back of my neck. I turned and there he was, coming in the door. Those ice-blue eyes seemed to track right to me, and he headed my way. Several other guys watched him. That face and those shoulders were prime beef in a sea of ordinary folks like me.

When he reached the bar, he sat beside me, glanced at my glass, and asked Max, “Is your rum as mediocre as your Scotch?”

“You’ll have to buy one to find out,” Max drawled.

“Two rum and cokes.” He slapped two twenties on the bar.

Max coughed, but took both and poured out two stiff drinks. The stranger pushed one toward me, and drank the other like he was used to doing shots.

“Yes, as I thought,” he said, setting down the empty glass. “A bit lower than top shelf.”

“Well, I like it.” I sipped at mine, acting like it was some vintage brandy champagne thing. Even though it never was more than a quick way to get a little lubrication onboard.

“I’m not sure what that says for your palate.”

“Says I’m not some city slicker with a fat wallet and prissified tastes.”

“Or that you’ve burned out your tastebuds.”

I shrugged and took another sip. “You got a name?”

“Yes.”

I waited but he didn’t go on, just eyed me sideways.

“What’ve I gotta do to hear it? Lift your wallet and read the license?”

“Maybe tell me yours first?”

“Joe. McNeil. Folks around here know me, anyone could tell you. But I never seen you in these parts before.”

“Oh dear, senility setting in?” He peered at me with fake concern.

“Say the fuck what?”

“You saw me here just last week. I’m shocked you’ve forgotten. That memory loss must be most inconvenient.”

I’d meant before that, and he knew it. So I said, “I guess you’re just that forgettable.”

He licked one finger and gave me a point in the air. I tell you, my jeans got tight watching his tongue on his skin. You can lick my finger, or any other parts you want.

“If you told me your name, I forgot that too,” I said.

“I didn’t.”

“You sure? Murgatroyd Bumblegarden rings a faint bell.”

“Hearing things too. Tsk tsk.” He shook his head. “There are no bells in here, Joe.”

I suddenly wanted to get this man and his smart, pretty mouth away from Max and the other guys― a bunch of them leaning close, listening, ready to horn in if he got tired of plain old Joe. “Maybe we should check outside,” I suggested.

“Maybe we should, at that.” Mr. City waved to Max. “Keep the change.” He slid off his stool and raised an eyebrow at me. “Coming?”

“Takes more than a free drink and a pretty face to make me come,” I muttered. “But I ain’t opposed to it.” I picked up my hat, walked past him, and led the way out, because he’d been making all the moves, and while I like a guy to push a bit, I didn’t have a measure of him yet.

Outside the bar, the night was crisp and chilly, with winter no more than a breath away. I set my hat on my head, zipped up my shearling coat, and turned to face the stranger. He was wearing a jacket today too, but leather, soft and rich. He fastened the buttons, standing in the flashing light of the Miller Beer sign in the bar window. Red and blue splashed highlights across his skin.

He said, “It’s rather frigid to stand around outside tonight.”

“And a mite chilly too,” I agreed.

“I have a car.” He gestured at a sweet, candy-apple-red Mustang.

“That thing? I thought it was a fire engine. Or maybe a tomato.”

“Does zero to sixty in five point one seconds.”

“Pointing straight downhill with a tail wind?”

His teeth flashed white as he grinned. “Want to find out?”

I though about it for half a second, eyeing my old truck and the run-down bar and that shiny sports car owned by a guy whose name I didn’t even know. “Tell me your name first,” I said.

“Sylvester.”

“That’s a mouthful. What did they call you in school? Syl?” I tugged at the hem of his jacket. “Vest?”

“They called me Sylvester. And so will you. Ride?”

Well, if I was gonna be murdered by a psycho, that was a fine vehicle to die in. Wasn’t like I had so much of a great life to lose. Anyhow, for all his airs, he didn’t strike me as the psycho type. “Sure.”

He popped the locks and held my door like I was a girl. I lowered myself in, folding my long legs and setting my hat in my lap. The car had more room than I expected, low to the ground as it was, and the black leather seat gave underneath me with that smell nothing but real leather has. I breathed it in, then said, “Bet these seats get hot, come summer,” because I had to say something.

Sylvester walked around the front and got in his side. “Keep insulting the Mustang come summer, and you won’t be around long enough to find out.”

“That’s six months,” I said, surprised. “You gonna be in these parts that long?”

“God only knows.” He said it so low I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to hear. Then louder, “Grab on,” and he peeled that car out of the lot, throwing a spray of gravel.

I clung to the Jesus-bar. “Better hope that there gravel didn’t take out anyone’s window. This car ain’t exactly inconspicuous, if they wanna find you.”

“I doubt they could spot the new damage amid the dents in most of those trucks,” he said.

That was true, but cold enough that I said, “We’re working cowboys, mostly, in that bar. Small business owners, laborers. We ain’t got money for polished and shiny.”

After a minute of silence, other than the growl of the ‘Stang as he opened her up on the paved road, he muttered, “You’re right. I will pay for any damage that might’ve occurred.”

“Well, you’re not wrong about the dents,” I said.

He stepped on the gas harder and the needle climbed to ninety miles an hour. I hoped Deputy Morse was miles away, patrolling Main Street, and not speed trapping tonight. There was something angry, or restless, or maybe hurting, in the way he drove that car forward. Didn’t seem like just a man having fun showing off his toy.

I gave him a couple of minutes, then one more, then I tried to change the tone. “Why’re you called Sylvester, anyway? Rich uncle? Mom was bitten by a cartoon cat while pregnant?”

He choked a small laugh, and eased off the pedal a bit. Score one for me. “No, she was a diehard fan of Georgette Heyer.”

“George who?”

“A romance author.”

“Sounds like no kind of excuse to me.”

“Well, I like it.” He huffed a breath.

“Good thing, since you gotta live with it.” Before he could get his back up too much, I added, “I kind of like it too. Suits you, in a cut glass, black tie way. Bit of a mouthful to scream out though, when you’re sucking me off.”

His lips twitched. “Good thing you’ll be sucking me off, then. ‘Joe’ is pretty short and easy.”

“I’ll have you know I’m tall and easy,” I drawled. “Six-three, last time I checked.”

“I’m six-four.”

“And ain’t no one called me pretty.”

“Maybe not. Rugged. Striking. All planes and angles and colors like the raw earth and the winter grass and the mountains in fall.”

I liked that, a bit too much. I said, “That me or Mount Rushmore?”

“Your hair’s all kinds of golden shades, from deep amber to pale wheat straw. I noticed it, first off.”

“Sticks up like wheat straw too,” I said. “Anyhow, the lights in Max’s Place are too low to make out much.”

“Your eyes are gray, like storm clouds.”

“Are you a poet or a weatherman?”

“You don’t know how to take a compliment, do you?”

I turned my hat around in my hands and admitted, “Haven’t never gotten many of those.”

He glanced my way, eyes on me long enough I was glad he’d dropped our speed down to legal. “I might have to fix that.”

Something needy inside me wanted to sit up and beg like a dog. Yeah, say nice things. Not just how good I can suck cock, or how fast I rope a steer. Make me feel special. I squashed it down flat. “Where are we going, Sylvester?”

“I thought my place,” he said. “But if that’s not okay with you, we could find a motel.”

Wasn’t a motel nearby that wouldn’t look sideways at us asking for a room for the night, when they knew where I lived. We could go down into Lakewood, maybe, but that was farther than I wanted to drive and longer than I wanted to wait. “Where’s your place?”

“It used to be a working ranch. The Circle K.”

“Really?” I took another look at him. He still didn’t look anything like a rancher. “Hasn’t been anyone living there for two, three years. Not since old man Pascal passed away. And he sold off all the stock a few years before. Couldn’t keep it going.”

“My grandfather.”

“Sorry for your loss,” I said automatically.

He shook his head. “I hadn’t seen him in thirty years. He disowned my mother, and she changed her name a couple times. Which is why it took the lawyers two years to track me down. I was shocked he’d left me in the will. And now I own an abandoned ranch in the middle of nowhere.”

“You can probably sell,” I suggested. “Neighbors might want to pick up the acreage.”

“Maybe. But… I’m going to think about this a while.”

Must be nice to have those options. If I owned a ranch… “What did you do in the city, Sylvester?”

“What makes you think I live in the city?”

I reached over and mussed the back of his perfect haircut, and he said, “Hey!”

“City boy,” I told him.

“City man, and you’re going to know that good and hard before the night’s out.”

“Promises, promises.” I slouched in my seat and stretched my legs out further.

He slowed and turned onto a gravel road. “I owned and managed a hotel. My establishment was bought out by a high-end chain, which gave me enough money to take a bit of time deciding what to do next. And then, just when I was making some decisions, this ranch turned up.”

“So annoying, to be handed a house and a few hundred acres.”

“Few thousand,” he said. “But it’s out here in the boonies, where there’s only one gay bar in a hundred miles, and I’m surprised the rednecks aren’t lined up to beat down the men who go there.”

“Not anymore,” I said, real low. Because I’m going on forty, and twenty years ago, before Max’s, being out and proud could be a real risky proposition.

He must’ve caught my tone, because his hand landed on my knee, warm and strong, for just a moment. Then he had to steer a tight turn into the drive. “This is the place.”

He drove through the front gate, which stood open. I tell you, that open gate made me twitchy as hell, in cattle country. Which was better than thinking back to the bad times. “You don’t have any stock on the place at all?”

“None. I might get a horse, if I’m here very long. I learned how to ride when I was a kid, and I miss it.“

“You’ll want to keep that gate shut, if you do.”

He laughed. “I grew up out here, till I was ten. I know all about good fences and good neighbors.”

“Cain’t prove it by that gate,” I drawled, to make him laugh again.

He pulled around in front of the main house and shut off the engine. With the Mustang’s voice silenced, the night hung silent and waiting around us. “Is this still okay?” he asked.

“Depends. You got a bed in there? Or at least a thick rug?”

“Both.”

“Then, hell yeah.” I swung the door open and got out, tugging my hat down on my head. “Come on Sylvester. You claim you got an inch on me. I’m gonna make you prove it.”

We came together at the foot of the front steps. When I’d have gone up them, he stopped me with a hand on my arm, then set his other hand behind my head. That inch of difference in our heights was matched by my boot heels, and our mouths came together perfect, with no one having to bend.

I didn’t get kissed much. Mostly at Max’s, the back room’s in demand and one or the other of you has spunk on their tongue before too long. Or once in a while, I’d bend over for someone, but that’s not a kissing position neither. So it’d been a rare thing.

And I’d never been kissed like that. Not slow and easy, warm and confident. He held me steady and kissed me like he wanted to, like he’d be good with just kissing for hours. He nipped at my lower lip, slid his cheek against mine and bit my ear, came back and made me open and take his tongue. I tried to keep up, but my breath came short and by the time he was done, I was clinging to him with both hands. Embarrassing as hell.

I let go and wiped my chin with the back of my hand, pretending I couldn’t see it shaking. “What do you call that?”

“Kissing, Joe. See when I put my mouth on your mouth―“

I shoved him, harder than I meant to. “You don’t need to kiss me to get me to suck you off.” Not sure why I was mad, but maybe because it made me want things. Made this seem like more than it was.

He caught my jaw with one hand. “Tell me you didn’t like it.”

I wanted to, but I don’t make a habit of lying when I don’t have to, so I pulled loose and turned toward the house. And stopped for a moment, eyes probably wide as saucers. “Damn, that’s big.”

“My great-grandfather had nine kids. I’m rattling around in it.”

“No doubt.” The lower story was fieldstone which is real rare in these parts, and the upper was stucco and timber, like something out of a postcard from Switzerland. It reminded me again of the gap between him and me, and I was wondering if this was a good idea after all when he grabbed my arm.

“Come on. The size of the house is irrelevant. The size of the bed is what counts.”

I let him guide me in the front door and waited while he locked up solid behind us. He didn’t turn on a light, so I just got a feeling of open space before he towed me up the polished wooden staircase. There was just enough moon coming in a window above the door to keep me from tripping flat on my face.

Sylvester led me past the first door at the top of the stairs, and in at the second, pausing there to flip a switch. A bedside light came on, revealing a bed that wasn’t too shabby for size neither. A king for sure. Maybe extra long. And for a guy who’s six-three and been sleeping in a twin bed for twenty years, that was almost as appealing as the man at my side.

Only almost, because Sylvester set a hand on my face and kissed me again, more of that intense mouth-on-mouth action that made my knees weak. I figured, might as well give in to the inevitable. I let that shake slide me down to kneel on the floor, looking up at him. He didn’t stop me, but when I reached for his belt buckle he put his hand on mine. “What’s your hurry?”

“Isn’t this what you brought me here for?”

“Yes, eventually.”

“Having a hard time getting it up, Gramps?” I needled him, even though I could see a nice package straining his slacks behind that zip he wasn’t letting me at.

“Not even slightly.” He set a hand under my armpit and pulled me to my feet. “But if all I wanted was a fast blow job with both of us dressed, I could’ve taken you into the back room at Max’s.”

“If I’d’ve gone back with you. Kinda big assumption.” Like I hadn’t done it a hundred times with guys no match for him.

He tugged the zipper of my jacket down, inch by inch, then tweaked my nipple through my shirt. “Are you claiming you’d have said no?”

“Not claiming anything. Just sayin‘.” I couldn’t help twitching when he played with my other nipple.

“We have a clean room, a big bed, privacy, and lots of time. I want to see you naked.” He undid the top button of my shirt and then the next one.

I had to say, “I ain’t all that.” Because he was looking at me with this light in his eyes like a kid on Christmas morning.

“You’re fine, Joe. You’re excellent.” He tugged the shirttails out of my jeans to finish unbuttoning, then slid shirt and coat off my shoulders together.

“I’m not muscled up like the guys in porn.”

He ran a hand over my shoulder and down one arm, rubbing his thumb along the raised vein on my forearm. “You have real muscles, working muscles. This is strength here.” He touched my biceps. “And here.” He trailed fingers across my chest.

I shivered at his touch. “Got a farmer’s tan.” The lines of brown faded up my arms, from fall T-shirt length back to summer sleeveless, to where I’d work without a shirt when it got real hot. When we stripped down past jeans and underwear, I’d probably blind him with my white ass and legs. Ranching ain’t no place for wearing booty shorts and lying out to catch a tan.

“It’s funny,” he said in a slow, honey-rich tone, as he touched my neck and chest and arms. “My grandfather would be rolling in his grave to know that his ranch helped set my preferences when I was still young. He’d take me out with him, on his horse or in the truck, to where the men were working. All those lean, wiry cowboys, naked to the waist on hot days, with stringy muscles and hair on their chests and the smell of sweat and leather. I was only nine or ten, when he told me ‘That’s what a real man‘s like,’ but by God, I imprinted on it.”

“Like a gay duckling?” I dared to reach over in my turn and begin unbuttoning his leather jacket.

“But without the waterfowl.” He shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it to a chair, and pulled his silky sweater over his head. Under it, his chest was smooth and hairless, sculpted and hard. He didn’t have a six-pack, but his stomach was flat and above the waistband of his slacks, he had those grooves gym-fit men get, hip heading to groin on each side. My eyes wanted to follow the arrowhead down where a hint of treasure trail peeked above his fine leather belt.

I ran my fingertips down his chest, watching his flat, brown nipples crinkle and tighten at my touch. “If you like chest hair and all, how come you’re shaved?”

“Waxed, I’ll have you know.” He sighed. “Long story, ex-boyfriend, and anyhow, I didn’t want to be those cowboys, I wanted to sleep with them.”

“At age nine?” I tried to raise one eyebrow, though it’s an art I didn’t have down pat like he did.

“Latently. Without realizing it. Ten years later, right front and center.”

I felt a mite jealous of that ex-boyfriend and even all those long-gone cowboys, which was about the silliest thing I’d ever though of. I stepped away from him and undid my belt.

Sylvester tilted his head, watching me. “I like hard-bodied men and I like leather. You’d look good in leather. Ever try any?”

“Nope.” At least not the bondage harness or cuffs or whatever he was thinking of.

“That’s a pity. I’d like to see you in it.”

“I could leave my boots on.”

He chuckled. “Get naked, Joe McNeil. Show me what you’ve got for me.”

I was a bit off my game, in front of his smooth perfection. So I kept my eyes down on the polished wood floor, while I kicked out of those boots and stripped off jeans, socks, and undershorts. I dropped my clothes off to one side, aware of the rustling as he pulled down his wool slacks and, okay, I took one look at his sculpted ass in tight briefs that barely covered his big package, before dropping my gaze again. My dick didn’t care about whether I measured up to what he was looking for, though. I’d been hard ever since I got into the damned Mustang, and by now I could’ve driven nails with my dick.

“Perfect,” he said, like he meant it.

“Can I kneel now?” I asked, snarky-like, to hide how much I wanted it.

He ran a hand over my head, tugging a little on my hair, then pushed me lower. “Suck me, Joe.”

I dropped to my knees, harder than I meant to but I didn’t care. Running my hands up his thighs to his hips, I held on good and leaned forward. His big, cut cock bobbed in front of my face and I opened up and took him in. This I was good at. This I could do, a skill honed by years of practice. I sucked hard, hollowing my cheeks, then licked and teased, lapping at the precum welling at his tip, then opened my throat and dove down to the neatly-trimmed curls at his base.

“Jesus!” He gasped and his fingers tightened in my hair. “You don’t fool around.”

I pulled off with a pop. “I know what I like.”

He freed a hand to stroke my cheek as I sucked him again. “You ever like getting fucked?”

I froze, letting the weight of him lie along my tongue. He hadn’t seen the back of me yet, but the words made my ass clench something fierce. I let him glide out of my mouth. “Been known to happen a time or two.”

“What if I told you to get on the bed?”

“I’d say if you don’t have condoms and lube, there’s some in the pocket of my jacket.”

He pulled me to my feet and kissed me, the sweet salt of his precum on our tongues. “Lie down, then.”

He turned away to rummage in my discarded pockets, and I took advantage to stretch out on the bed, ass up.

“Found them―” His voice cut off short. “Joe.”

I figured he was staring at my ass, and the nice fat plug sticking out of it. I’d had hopes, although I almost didn’t wear it tonight, dumb as I felt the other three times, taking it back out in the bunkhouse john by myself. “Yes, Sylvester?”

“That’s probably the most erotic thing I’ve seen in years.”

“Does that mean you want to fuck me?”

“Indubitably.”

“Plastic bag for the plug in the same pocket.” I reached behind myself, but he smacked my hand away.

“Mine. Hands off.”

“Pretty sure that’s my ass,” I said.

“Pretty sure you’re wrong.” He slid his fingers down my crack, from the hollow of my spine to the fat base of the plug, and tapped on the silicone. When I shivered, he laughed and did it again. Then he began alternating pulling and twisting the plug with rubbing over my taint and down to where my balls hung tight and aching. The sensations zinged me, inside and out, and I lost words, nearly lost breath.

He played with the toy for a while, sounding pleased whenever he got a gasp or moan or shudder out of me. After a few minutes, I said, “The next step is pulling that plug out and pushing your dick in.”

“I know how to do this.”

“Yeah? I wasn’t sure. You gonna tease me all night?”

I expected more joking but he said, “No,” and eased the plug out, setting it aside. As I fidgeted, feeling cool and empty, I heard the condom wrapper tear, and what I hoped was the pillow pack. I bought ’em online, along with the condoms, because my days of being young and stupid enough to take it dry were long gone. A cowboy who can’t sit his horse next day without getting tears in his eyes is in a mess of stupid.

Then Sylvester said, “Roll over.”

“On my back?”

“And legs in the air.”

I’d never done it that way but I’d seen porn. I rolled over and grabbed my knees, hauling my kegs up and out. My ass was on full display, probably loose and open from the plug. I don’t know why that felt raunchier than bending over, but it did.

Sylvester was a sight looming over me, all smooth skin and big cock sheathed up good and shiny with lube. I pulled my knees wider and he knelt between them, aiming for my ass. I breathed through that first breach, as he pushed slowly and unstoppably into me. His eyes were intense. His gaze met mine in a way no one’s ever had. His pupils were wide, the ice-blue just a ring around deep black.

I sucked air through my nose, trying not to show how my ass was on fire because it’d been a while since I’d used more than my mouth on a man. But he saw something, because he slowed halfway in, moving in small circles with his hips, a fraction at a time.

“I can take it,” I said, though my teeth were clenched.

“I can see that.” He reached between us and stroked my dick, which’d softened a bit. The touch made me gasp and went a ways to helping my ass reconcile with his big rod. He rubbed me again, firm but not hard, his fingers still slick with the lube and Joe Junior got back into the program right quick. “You’ll take exactly what I give you.” He picked up the pace in my ass a little but it was still all slow motions, push and pull, drag and give.

I didn’t have breath to complain, or the brain cells to put words together. I’d never been fucked like this. Don’t know if it was the position, or the slow and easy pace, or just him, the sight and smell and sounds of him, but my whole body was lit up like I‘d grabbed the electric fence. Except I didn’t want to let go.

He sank deep and deeper, until he was bottoming out in me. And still he worked my ass slow and firm and long, like his dick was trying to find my heart, or maybe my soul. Wasn’t sure I had either one, this time in my life, but what I did have was sitting up and begging for him. My cock was so hard under his gliding fist I thought it might split and my balls wanted to erupt. What he was doing felt so good and yet hurt in odd ways that weren’t physical at all.

And he kept doing it. Kept fucking me perfect and jacking me like he had all night. His hair was disarranged now, falling into those ice-blue eyes, and a little sweat made that perfect chest gleam in the low light. I gave up on everything, control, thought, breathing even, letting each slow thrust drive a hoarse grunt from my throat.

I expected him to speed up, to start pounding me fast like a man might to get off. But between one long tip-to-hilt drive and the next, lightning hit me. I came in pulses of relief so sharp my vision grayed out. Through a rush of blood in my ears, I heard myself crying out. Not his name― I managed not to be that sappy― but “Please” and “Yes” and a whole lot of taking the Lord’s name in vain.

Before my sight cleared, Sylvester groaned long and loud and kinda collapsed on me, his whole big body shuddering. I let my legs fall to the bed and wrapped my arms around him. Couldn’t not, the way he’d come down on my chest like all his strings were cut. I held him while his breath puffed out in hot gasps against my neck and his cock jerked inside me.

Reality came back slowly, in the ticking of the electric heater under the window, and the stickiness of my cum cooling between our chests. Sylvester was a heavy weight on me, but I couldn’t say I hated it.

“Not bad, cowboy,” he murmured against my cheek.

“Don’t get all enthusiastic or nothing,” I said as dryly as I could.

He turned his mouth to my ear and I expected a nip, but he kissed me there, and on the temple and the cheek, and kinda nuzzled against my throat. Something sang through me like a blackbird, first day of spring, and I couldn’t hardly stand the sweetness so I gave him a shove. “You’re heavy.”

He moved enough to slip free of my body, which made us both gasp. Then he settled again, his weight off my hips but an arm and a leg thrown over me like he wanted to pin me there. I couldn’t find it in me to object to being pinned, neither.

“I could marry this bed,” I said, just for something to say. Though it was an amazing bed, just the right softness on top of firmness and so long that my feet weren’t hitting the bottom.

Sylvester chuckled. “The frame was my grandfather’s. I brought it in here and got the very best mattress I could. This is the first time I’ve fucked a man in the old man’s bed, but I’m sure loving it, all the way around.”

There was a thread of bitter in that humor, so I said cautiously, “I get the feeling your grandfather’s not your favorite person.”

“He kicked me and my mom out when I was ten. She fell in love with a woman.”

“Ah.”

“He was a narrow old bastard. Destroyed everything of hers she couldn’t pack in two suitcases, and one of those was my stuff. Wouldn’t ever talk to her again, nor me, when I asked to come back for a visit.”

“I’m sorry.”

I felt him shrug. “It worked out for the best. Mom and Cassie raised me, and Cassie’s dad owned the hotel. We all worked for him till he retired, then Cassie took over, and when she and Mom wanted to travel and see the world, she passed it to me, free and clear so I didn’t have to try to find her in Kathmandu to get permission for changes.”

“They sound like real nice folks.”

“They’re great.” His voice softened, talking about his mom. Moms, I guess. “They’re in New Zealand right now. They invited me out there after I sold the hotel, but… I wanted something of my own.”

“You’ll find it, I’m sure.” There was a drive in him that surely wouldn’t be denied, especially with a bunch of money to back it up.

“Maybe.” He pushed to one side and rolled to face me, so I turned over too and stuffed a wonderful, downy pillow under my head to meet his eyes. He asked, “What chance do you think a dude ranch would have of working out around here?”

I blinked and tried to get my thinking parts in gear. “Middling? It’s pretty country. Not too cold in the winter, so the riding season could be April to November. Maybe a Christmas snow ride, if you had the right horses and prepared the trails.” I laughed. “And made sure the greenhorns had somewhere to warm their tender feet afterward.”

“So what’s the downside?”

“It’s awful quiet. Lakewood’s half an hour away, and even that’s not big. No fancy places to shop, really, not for city folk. A couple movie theaters that’re kinda run down. Would dude folks want to be this far off the beaten track?”

“Maybe for short stays. A long weekend, a week max. If I could make sure the food was excellent, and provide enough amenities in house and grounds.” His voice had moved back from my drawling lover― fucker? Fuck buddy? I reminded myself we were nothing more― to the crisp business tones I’d heard that first night.

“You?”

“I have this big damned house.” He gestured around. “Ten bedrooms, although I’d need more baths so I’d probably cannibalize a couple to split up for baths. Big kitchen, fireplace you could roast a pig in. Land, barns, fences not in bad shape yet.”

I though he was an optimist about the fences. A few years without tending meant lots of repairs. But what I said was, “I don’t recommend pig roasting indoors.”

He laughed. “Figure of speech. But seriously, I’ve been thinking about it. Using the place instead of selling up. I’m too young to be retired. I need a project, and since I got back here I feel… connected again. Rooted, in a way I haven’t since I was ten. My mother loves travel, and she felt stifled in the hotel. But I always wanted one place to belong.” He laughed again, though it sounded a bit fake, like he was throwing off the mood. He set a hand on my naked hip. “And there’s no beating the local scenery.”

I shifted out from under his hand. “So maybe you should do it.”

“Maybe. I know the hospitality part. I even know a chef who might be willing to come work for me. He was at the hotel, quit after six months of the new management, and I know he hates where he is now. He and his wife have six kids, and he talks about wanted to raise them back in the country, but there’s not a lot of call for Michelin stars outside the cities.”

“Sounds like you have it planned out.” I wasn’t sure why my throat felt tight.

“But not the ranch part.” He brushed his damp hair off his forehead. “If I was having five to ten guests, how many horses would I need, to be sure of mounts for them? How few cattle could I get by with to give them a cowboy experience, but not divert too many resources to cows I’m not really interested in?”

“You could probably get by with twenty head of Angus, maybe thirty,” I said. “Beefs look big and intimidating to city folk, and a herd of thirty running or being split and penned would probably be thrill enough.”

“Why Angus?”

“Black and pretty? And they’re maybe the easiest beef breed to work with, if that’s your goal. If it’s just for show, you could buy rejects pretty cheap. Old man Davidson runs Angus on his spread. He’d sell you some.”

“And the horses?”

“You’d need… three ranch hands, minimum. Maybe three and a foreman, to keep everything running smooth. They’d mostly bring a horse of their own, but you’d want a couple spare cutting horses, because horses are damned fools. Turn around and they’ve got their foot in wire or they get in the feed room and try to colic. For the guests?” I gave it a bit of thought. “If your top end‘s ten people, you might get by with twenty guest horses.”

“Why not just ten?”

“Did you hear me about horses and fools? And worse when they’re carrying a green rider. Besides, you also need a variety. Some slow, gentle plugs for the folks who’ve never set a foot in a saddle. But some better mounts too, for the ones who actually know something about what they’re doing. And then size. You can go toward the bigger end. They can carry a small person too. But some folks will feel uncomfortable, mounted way above their size.”

“Sure.”

“And if you’re going to allow kids, you’ll want some ponies too.”

He nodded. “Makes sense. It’s a lot to think about.”

“Yep. Livestock needs good management. A hotel won’t up and get sick or ornery or suddenly go lame. Critters are different.”

“Not that different. A furnace can break, a roof leak, your chef suddenly come down with the flu. Part of running a successful hospitality business is preparation, back-ups, and being able to improvise.” He sat up in the bed and mopped at his sticky chest with the top sheet.

Since he was willing to ruin his linens like that, I did the same, then, when he made no move to get up, I pulled the blanket around my shoulders.

“It’s an exciting idea,” he went on slowly. “What I’ve dreamed of, in a way, since those days of sweaty cowboys and grooming my pony and smelling the dirt of home. But there’s a lot to consider. Including one other aspect.” He met my eyes. “If I did this― if―” The emphasis seemed almost like a reminder to himself. “I’d want it to be gay-friendly. For a whole host of reasons, including the fact that I’m not going to live my life in the closet. How would that go over around here?”

I bit my lip. “Depends. If you’re going to make a big deal out of being the gay dude ranch, fly flags and slap rainbows on everything, you might have a problem.”

“I wasn’t going to be that in-your-face.”

“Times are changing. You might be fine. You’d need to be careful of your hires though. Especially the hands. One bastard not fastening the girth tight enough for some flamboyant city queen and you could end in disaster.”

“Is that something you’d know? Who was gay-friendly and who wasn’t?”

“Some. Yeah. Been gay around here twenty years. I know whose lip curls, and who shows up at Max’s on a Saturday night.”

“You.” He reached a hand to cup my jaw and I couldn’t help leaning into the warm touch. “You’re like the last piece of the puzzle I’ve been wrestling with. What if I hired you as that foreman? You have the ideas, the experience with the livestock, and the queer eye for the straight guy.” He chuckled, warm and satisfied.

I pulled away, trying to figure out why that felt like icewater in my gut, instead of the best offer I’d ever had. “So I’d work for you? I’ve never been a foreman.”

“Yes. I’m sure you’d figure it out.”

“Mm.”

His face fell, some of the light dimming in his eyes. “Of course, I didn’t ask. Maybe you love the job you have now. Maybe this dude ranch idea sounds risky or unappealing.”

I shook my head. “My job’s a job. I’d give it up for a better one. But…” It was way too soon and too raw, but I had to say it. “I was really hoping for more of this.” I waved between our naked bodies. “Don’t know if I can go down to just being your employee. Don’t know if I want to.” I’d take orders from him in bed, any day of the week and Sundays too, but if I owed him my job?

His expression cleared. “That’s not what I’m asking. We wouldn’t have to stop.”

“You’re okay with fucking your foreman?” Am I okay with being fucked by my boss?

“Mama Cassie’s whole family worked in the hotel, off and on― her brother, before he went to med school, my mom, before and after they were married, me, her cousin, her cousin’s boyfriend. We didn’t have strict boss-employee relationships but we all made it work.”

“That’s not the same thing. I’m a stranger, a working man. I never finished high school. I’m not a relation, I got no leverage against you, if you’re my boss.”

Sylvester raised an eyebrow. “You’re a bright, insightful man, with a lot to offer. I don’t know why you didn’t graduate―”

“No money. I started cowboying full time at sixteen.”

“A diploma’s not a measure of who you are. Or who you can be.” He reached for my hand and I let him take it. He ran his thumb over the veins standing up on the back, turned my palm over and rubbed my calluses. “You earned these with hard work. You’re what I’m looking for. Someone to partner with me in this crazy scheme from day one. Someone who won’t be too awed by my money or my personality to tell me when I’m on the wrong track or fucking things up.”

“I could probably do that part,” I agreed.

The smile that curved his lips was a hell of a pretty sight. “I bet you can. And your knowledge base perfectly complements mine for this project. I could interview a thousand men and not find someone a better fit.”

“And the sex?”

“It’s going to be months before this ranch gets off the ground, if it ever does. Probably a year or more, with the remodeling and all the rest. You won’t be my foreman in a chain of command, with the staff, for quite a while.” He let go of my hand and ran one finger down my soft cock. Despite being thirty-eight and having been dicked into oblivion ten minutes earlier, Joe Junior gave a little twitch, liking that touch.

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“I think we could be a good thing. Out there and here in bed, while we figure out if the ranch is going to fly. By the time we’re hiring hands, we’ll know if…”

“If?”

“If this perfect fit, in and out of bed, is something that’s going to last.”

I took a sharp breath through my teeth, because I suddenly wanted that, more than I‘d wanted anything in my life. I could picture it, clear as day, him and me wrangling a bunch of clueless dudes, pretty horses, and reject steers all day, and then falling into this big bed at night. A life. A place to belong. A man.

I rolled out of bed fast and began pulling on my clothes. Sylvester watched me, his face carefully neutral. When I was dressed and armored some against hurt, I turned to him. “You need to ask around,” I said. “You need to see what people say about Joe McNeil, before you hand me keys to the kingdom.” Before you break my heart, because I hadn’t been sure I had one, a few hours back, but now I felt like it was poised on a cliff.

“What will I hear?”

“Some good and some bad, I’m sure.” Folks knew me, though I’d never stood out from the crowd except for being queer. “They’ll tell you I’m honest, I hope. Blunt to a fault, maybe. A good man with horses. Some folk will want to make sure you know I’m bent.”

“I think I have a pretty clear picture of that.” He flicked a finger at the butt plug on the side table.

I pulled a baggie out of my pocket, picked up the toy, and stuffed it away. “Yeah. Well, the ones that are careful to point it out are the ones to avoid doing business with for the ranch, if you can.”

“Ah, a homophobe test.” He stood up too and pulled those sinfully small briefs over his ass. “Is there something out there that’s going to make me change my mind?”

“I hope not,” I said. “But you can’t just… take me on as a partner on the basis of how good a fuck I am.”

“Believe me, you weren’t that good.”

Well, fuck. When I blinked hard and looked away, he hurried over and wrapped his arms around me. “No, Jesus, Joe. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that no man’s ass by itself would be enough to make me give him this offer. No matter how perfect. It wasn’t the sex. It was the parts between. The way you take teasing and give it right back to me. The way you answer seriously when you know I need it. The way you’re generous with yourself. Even this― the way you’re careful not to leap at the chance of work, money, power, in case it’s not right.”

“For both our sakes,” I pointed out. “Although… how much money are you offering? Might change my mind.“

He laughed and kissed me. I melted against him. I wondered if I’d ever develop resistance to how his kisses felt, or would he always be able to win arguments with his lips on mine?

“All right,” he murmured against my cheek, not letting me go. “I’ll ask around. I’ll do my due diligence. And if people agree with my first impressions? If you really are the man I want at my side for this? What comes next?“

I nipped his ear and stepped free of his hold. Bending, I scooped his nice sweater off the floor and tossed it to him, then added his slacks. “If you’re certain, you come to Max’s next Saturday night. And maybe I’ll let a city slicker pick me up again. For now, you need to drive me back to my truck.” Before I never want to leave. Before I lose my will–power.

“I can do that.”

“In that Mustang. Boy oh boy, you’ve been pining for horses and leather. No wonder you bought that thing. You know, you’re gonna rip the undercarriage outta her on some of the local roads, come spring and pot-hole season.“

“I have an SUV too. I save the Mustang for special occasions.”

“Like cruising gay bars?“

“Bar. Singular. Because this is a wasteland.”

“But one you want to live in? Stay in?” I stared hard into those pale eyes, because I felt like all of me was riding on the answer.

“Yes. I do. And I’ll be by Max’s at ten sharp next Saturday night. What then?”

Warmth flooded through me, and it wasn’t the shearling jacket I was zipping up. “Then I reckon we’ll see what one sharp hotel manager and one ordinary cowboy can do together.”

“Sounds like a plan.” But before we headed down the stairs, he caught my arm and set a hand against my jaw, thumbing over my lip. “Just one correction. You’re not ordinary, Joe. Not one little bit. You’re amazing.”

That touch, those words I hadn’t realized I was hungry for, carried me forward through a long week at work. They echoed in my head and filled any moments of quiet. Until the moment I stood in front of Max’s Place again, looking at a candy-red muscle car in the parking lot. Until the moment I gathered my hopes and dreams, and pushed open the door.

 

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